Kal Zakath, the Emperor of boundless Mallorea, lounged in a red-cushioned chair at the far end of a large plain room. The Emperor wore a simple white linen robe, severe and unadorned. Though Garion knew that he was at least in his forties, his hair was untouched by gray and his face was unlined. His eyes, however, betrayed a kind of dead weariness, devoid of any joy or even any interest in life. Curled in his lap lay a common mackerel-striped alley cat, her eyes closed and her forepaws alternately kneading his thigh. Although the Emperor himself wore the simplest of clothes, the guards lining the walls all wore steel breastplates deeply inlaid with gold.
“My Emperor,” General Atesca said with a deep bow,
“I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, King Belgarion of Riva.”
Garion nodded briefly, and Zakath inclined his head in response. “Our meeting is long overdue, Belgarion,” he said in a voice as dead as his eyes. “Your exploits have shaken the world.”
“Yours have also made a certain impression, Zakath.” Garion had decided even before he had left Rak Verkat -that he would not perpetuate the absurdity of the Mallorean's self-bestowed “Kal.”
A faint smile touched Zakath's lips. “Ah,” he said in a tone which indicated that he saw through Garion's attempt to be subtle. He nodded briefly to the others, and his attention finally fixed itself upon the rumpled untidy form of Garion's grandfather.
“And of course you, sir, would be Belgarath,” he noted. “I'm a bit surprised to find you so ordinary looking. The Grolims of Mallorea all agree that you're a hundred feet tall -possible two hundred- and that you have horns and a forked tail.”
“I'm in disguise,” Belgarath replied with aplomb.
Zakath chuckled, though there was little amusement in that almost mechanical sound. Then he looked around with a faint frown. “I seem to note some absences,” he said.
“Queen Ce'Nedra fell ill during our journey, your Majesty.” Atesca advised him. “Lady Polgara is attending her.”
“Ill? Is it serious?”
“It's difficult to say at this point, your Imperial Majesty, “ Sadi replied unctuously, “but we have given her certain medications, and I have every confidence in Lady Polgara's skill.”
Zakath looked at Garion. “You should have sent word on ahead, Belgarion. I have a healer on my personal staff -a Dalasian woman with remarkable gifts. I'll send her to the Queen's chambers at once. Our first concern must be your wife's health.”
“Thank you,” Garion replied with genuine gratitude.
Zakath touched a bellpull and spoke briefly with the servant who responded immediately to his summons.
“Please,” the Emperor said then, “seat yourselves. I have no particular interest in ceremony.”
As the guards hastily brought chairs for them, the cat sleeping in Zakath's lap half opened her golden eyes and looked around at them. She rose to her paws, arched her back, and yawned. Then she jumped heavily to the floor with an audible grunt and waddled over to sniff at Eriond's fingers. With a faintly amused look, Zakath watched his obviously pregnant cat make her matronly way across the carpet. “You'll note that my cat has been unfaithful to me -again.” He sighed in mock resignation. “It happens fairly frequently, I'm afraid, and she never seems to feel the slightest guilt about it.”
The cat jumped up into Eriond's lap, nestled down, and began to purr contentedly.
“You've grown, boy,” Zakath said to the young man.
“Have they taught you how to talk as yet?” .
“I've picked up a few words, Zakath,” Eriond said in his clear voice.
“I know the rest of you -by reputation at least,” Zakath said then. “Goodman Durnik and I met on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull, and of course I've heard of the Margravine Liselle of Drasnian Intelligence and of Prince Kheldar, who strives to become the richest man in the world.”
Velvet's graceful curtsy of acknowledgment was not quite so florid as Silk's grandiose bow. .
“And here, of course,” the Emperor continued, “is Sadi, Chief Eunuch in the palace of Queen Salmissra.”
Sadi bowed with fluid grace. “I must say that your Majesty is remarkably well informed,” he said in his contralto voice. “You have read us all like an open book.”
“My chief of intelligence tries to keep me informed, Sadi. He may not be as gifted as the inestimable Javelin of Boktor, but he knows about most of what's going on in this part of the world. He's mentioned that huge fellow over in the corner, but so far he hasn't been able to discover his name.”
“He's called Toth,” Eriond supplied. “He's a mute, so we have to do his talking for him.”
“And a Dalasian besides,” Zakath noted. “A very curious circumstance.”
Garion had been closely watching this man. Beneath the polished, urbane exterior, he sensed a kind of subtle probing. The idle greetings, which seemed to be no more than a polite means of putting them at their ease, had a deeper motive behind them. In some obscure way he sensed that Zakath was somehow testing each of them.
The emperor straightened then. “You have an oddly assorted company with you, Belgarion,” he said, “and you're a long way from home. I'm curious about your reasons for being here in Cthol Murgos.”
“I'm afraid that's a private matter, Zakath.”
One of the Emperor's eyebrows rose slightly. “ Under the circumstances, that's hardly a satisfactory answer, Belgarion. I can't really take the chance that you're allied with Urgit.”
“Would you accept my word that I'm not?”
“Not until I know a bit more about your visit to Rak Urga. Urgit left there quite suddenly -apparently in your company- and reappeared just as suddenly on the plains of Morcth, where he and a young woman led his troops out of an ambush I'd gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange. You'll have to admit that's a peculiar set of circumstances.”
“Not when you look at it from a practical standpoint, “ Belgarath said. “The decision to take Urgit with us was mine. He'd found out who we are, and I didn't want an army of Murgos on our heels. Murgos aren't too bright, but they can be an inconvenience at times.
Zakath looked surprised. “He was your prisoner?”
Belgarath shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
The Emperor laughed rather wryly. “You could have wrung almost any concession from me if you had just delivered him into my hands, you know. Why did you let
him go?”
“We didn't need him anymore,” Garion replied. “We'd reached the shores of Lake Cthaka, so he really wasn't any kind of threat to us.”
Zakath's expression narrowed slightly. “ A few other things happened as well, I think,” he observed. “Urgit has always been a notorious coward, wholly under the domination of the Grolim Agachak and of his father's generals. But he didn't seem very timid while he was extricating his troops from the trap I'd laid for them, and all the reports filtering out of Rak Urga seem to suggest that he's actually behaving like a king. Did you by any chance have anything to do with that?”
“It's possible, I suppose,” Garion answered. “Urgit and I talked a few times, and I told him what he was doing wrong.”
Zakath tapped one forefinger against his chin, and his eyes were shrewd. “You may not have made a lion of him, Belgarion,” he said, “but at least he's no longer a rabbit.” A chill smile touched the Mallorean's lips. “In a way, I'm rather glad about that. I've never taken much satisfaction in hunting rabbits.” He shaded his eyes with one hand, although the light in the room was not particularly bright. “But what I can't understand is how you managed to spirit him out of the Drojim Palace and away from the city. He has whole regiments of bodyguards.”
“You're overlooking something, Zakath,” Belgarath said to him. “We have certain advantages that aren't available to others.”
“Sorcery, you mean? Is it really all that reliable?”
“I've had some luck with it from time to time.”
Zakath's eyes had become suddenly intent. “ They tell me that you're five thousand years old, Belgarath. Is that true?”
“Seven, actually -or a little more. Why do you ask?”
“In all those years, hasn't it ever occurred to you simply to seize power? You could have made yourself king of the world, you know.”
Belgarath looked amused. “Why would I want to?” he asked.
“All men want power. It's human nature.”
“Has all your power really made you happy?”
“It has certain satisfactions.”
“Enough to make up for all the petty distractions that go with it?”
“I can endure those. At least I'm in a position where no one tells me what to do.”
“No one tells me what to do either, and I'm not saddled with all those tedious responsibilities.” Belgarath straightened. “All right, Zakath, shall we get to the point? What are your intentions concerning us?”
“I haven't really decided that yet.” The Emperor looked around at them. “I presume that we can all be civilized about the present situation?”
“How do you mean, civilized?” Garion asked him.
“I'll accept your word that none of you will try to escape or do anything rash. I'm aware that you and a number of your friends have certain specialized talents. I don't want to be forced to take steps to counteract them.”
“We have some rather pressing business,” Garion replied carefully, “so we can only delay for just so long.
For the time being, however, I think we can agree to be reasonable about things.”
“Good. We'll have to talk later, you and I, and come to know one another. I've had comfortable quarters prepared for you and your friends, and I know that you're anxious about your wife. Now, I hope you'll excuse me, but I have some of those tedious responsibilities Belgarath mentioned to attend to.”
Although the house was very large, it was not, strictly speaking, a palace. It appeared that the Murgo governors-general of Hagga who had ordered it built had not shared the grandiose delusions which afflicted the rulers of Urga, and so the building was more functional than ornate.
“I hope you'll excuse me,” General Atesca said to them when they had emerged from the audience chamber. “I'm obliged to deliver a full report to his Majesty -about various matters- and then I must return immediately to Rak Verkat.” He looked at Garion. “The circumstances under which we met were not the happiest, your Majesty.” he said, “but I hope you won't think too unkindly of me.” He bowed rather stiffly and then left them in the care of a member of the Emperor's staff The man who led them down a long, dark-paneled hallway toward the center of the house was obviously not an Angarak. He had not the angular eyes nor the stiff, bleak-faced arrogance that marked the men of that race.
His cheerful, round face seemed to hint at a Melcene heritage, and Garion remembered that the bureaucracy which controlled most aspects of Mallorean life was made up almost exclusively of Melcenes. “His Majesty asked me to assure you that your quarters are not intended to be a prison,” the official told them as they approached a heavily barred iron door blocking off one portion of the hallway. “This was a Murgo house before we took the city, and it has certain structural peculiarities. Your rooms are in what once were the women's quarters, and Murgos are fanatically protective of their women. It has to do with their concept of racial purity, I think.”
At the moment, Garion had little interest in sleeping arrangements. All his concern was for Ce'Nedra. “Do you happen to know where I might find my wife?” he asked the moon-faced bureaucrat.
“There at the end of this corridor, your Majesty,” the Melcene replied, pointing toward a blue-painted door at the far end of the hall.
“Thank you.” Garion glanced at the others. “I'll be back in a little while,” he told them and strode on ahead.
The room he entered was warm and the lighting subdued. Deep, ornately woven Mallorean carpets covered the floor and soft green velvet drapes covered the tall, narrow windows. Ce'Nedra lay in a high-posted bed, against the wall opposite the door, and Polgara was seated at the bedside, her expression grave.
“Has there been any change?” Garion asked her, softly closing the door behind him.
“Nothing as yet,” she replied.
Ce'Nedra's face was pale as she slept with her crimson curls tumbled on her pillow.
“She is going to be all right, isn't she?” Garion asked.
“I'm sure of it, Garion.”
Another woman sat near the bed. She wore a light green, cowled robe; despite the fact that she was indoors, she had the hood pulled up, partially concealing her face.
Ce'Nedra muttered something in a strangely harsh tone and tossed her head restlessly on her pillow. The cowled woman frowned. “Is this her customary voice, Lady Polgara?” she asked.
Polgara looked at her sharply. “No,” she replied. “ As a matter of fact, it's not.”
“Would the drug you gave her in some way affect the sound of her speech?”
“No, it wouldn't. Actually, she shouldn't be making any sounds at all.”
“ Ah,” the woman said. “I think perhaps I understand now.” She leaned forward and very gently laid the fingertips of one hand on Ce'Nedra's lips. She nodded then and withdrew her hand. “ As I suspected,” she murmured.
Polgara also reached out to touch Ce'Nedra's face.
Garion heard the faint whisper of her will, and the candle at the bedside flared up slightly, then sank back until its flame was scarcely more than a pinpoint. “I should have guessed,” Polgara accused herself.
“What is it?” Garion asked in alarm.
“Another mind is seeking to dominate your wife and to subdue her will, your Majesty,” the cowled woman told him. “It's an art sometimes practiced by the Grolims. They discovered it quite by accident during the third age.”
“This is Andel, Garion,” Polgara told him. “Zakath sent her here to help care for Ce'Nedra.”
Garion nodded briefly to the hooded woman.” Exactly what do we mean by the word 'dominate'?” he asked.
“You should be more familiar with that than most people, Garion,” Polgara said. “I'm sure you remember Asharak the Murgo.” Garion felt a sudden chill, remembering the force of the mind that had from his earliest childhood sought that same control over his awareness. “Drive it out,” he pleaded. “Get whomever it is out of her mind.”
“Perhaps not quite yet, Garion,” Polgara said coldly. “We have an opportunity here. Let's not waste it.”
“I don't understand.”
“You will, dear,” she told him. Then she rose, sat on the edge of the bed and lightly laid one hand on each of Ce'Nedra's temples. The faint whisper came again, stronger this time, and once again the candles all flared and then sank back as if suffocating. “I know you're in there,” she said then. “You might as well speak.”
Ce'Nedra's expression grew contorted, and she tossed her head back and forth as if trying to escape the hands touching her temples. Polgara's face grew stern, and she implacably kept her hands in place. The pale lock in her hair began to glow, and a strange chill came into the room, seeming to emanate from the bed itself.
Ce'Nedra suddenly screamed.
“Speak!” Polgara commanded. “You cannot flee until I release you, and I will not release you until you speak.”
Ce'Nedra's eyes suddenly opened. They were filled with hate. “I do not fear thee, Polgara,” she said in a harsh, rasping voice delivered in a peculiar accent.
“And I fear you even less. Now, who are you?”
“Thou knowest me, Polgara.”
“Perhaps, but I will have your name from you.”
There was a long pause, and the surge of Polgara's will grew stronger.
Ce'Nedra screamed again -a scream filled with an agony that made Garion flinch. “Stop!” the harsh voice cried. “I will speak!”
“Say your name,” Polgara insisted implacably.
“I am Zandramas.”
“So. What do you hope to gain by this?”
An evil chuckle escaped Ce'Nedra's pale lips. “I have already stolen her heart, Polgara -her child. Now I will steal her mind as well. I could easily kill her if I chose, but a dead Queen may be buried and her grave left behind. A mad one, on the other hand, will give thee much to distract thee from thy search for the Sardion.”
“I can banish you with a snap of my fingers, Zandramas.”
“And I can return just as quickly.”
A frosty smile touched Polgara's lips. “You're not nearly as clever as I thought,” she said. “Did you actually believe that I twisted your name out of you for my own amusement? Were you ignorant of the power over you that you gave me when you spoke your own name. The power of the name is the most elementary of all. I can keep you out of Ce'Nedra's mind now. There's much more, though. For example, I know now that you're at Ashaba, haunting the bat-infested ruins of the House of Torak like a poor ragged ghost.”
A startled gasp echoed through the room.
“I could tell you more, Zandramas, but this is all beginning to bore me.” She straightened, her hands still locked to the sides of Ce'Nedra's head. The white lock at her brow flared into incandescence, and the faint whisper became a deafening roar. “Now, begone!” she commanded.
Ce'Nedra moaned, and her face suddenly contorted into an expression of agony. An icy, stinking wind seemed to howl through the room, and the candles and glowing braziers sank even lower until the room was scarcely lit “Begone!” Polgara repeated.
An agonized wail escaped Ce'Nedra's lips, and then that wail became disembodied, coming it seemed from the empty air above the bed. The candles went out, and all light ceased to glow out of the braziers. The wailing voice began to fade, moving swiftly until it came to them as no more than a murmur echoing from an unimaginable distance.
“Is Zandramas gone?” Garion asked in a shaking voice.
“Yes,” Polgara replied calmly out of the sudden darkness.
“What are we going to say to Ce'Nedra? When she wakes up, I mean.”
“She won't remember any of this. Just tell her something vague. Make some light, dear.”
Garion fumbled for one of the candles, brushed his sleeve against it, and then deftly caught it before it hit the floor. He was sort of proud of that.
“Don't play with it, Garion. Just light it.” Her tone was so familiar and so commonplace that he began to laugh, and the little surge of his will that he directed at the candle was a stuttering sort of thing. The flame that appeared bobbled and hiccuped at the end of the wick in a soundless golden chortle.
Polgara looked steadily at the giggling candle, then closed her eyes. “Oh, Garion,” she sighed in resignation.
He moved about the room relighting the other candles and fanning the braziers back into life. The flames were all quite sedate -except for the original one, which continued to dance and laugh in blithe glee.
Polgara turned to the hooded Dalasian healer. “You're most perceptive, Andel,” she said. “That sort of thing is difficult to recognize unless you know precisely what you're looking for.”
“The perception was not mine, Lady Polgara,” Andel replied. “ I was advised by another of the cause of her Majesty's illness.”
“Cyradis?”
Andel nodded. “ The minds of all our race are joined with hers, for we are but the instruments of the task which lies upon her. Her concern for the Queen's well-being prompted her to intervene.” The hooded woman hesitated. “The Holy Seeress also asked me to beg you to intercede with your husband in the matter of Toth. The Goodman's anger is causing that gentle guide extreme anguish, and his pain is also hers. What happened at Verkat had to happen -otherwise the meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark could not come to pass for ages hence.”
Polgara nodded gravely. “I thought it might have been something like that. Tell her that I'll speak with Durnik in Toth's behalf.”
Andel inclined her head gratefully.
“Garion,” Ce'Nedra murmured drowsily, “where are we?”
He turned to her quickly. “ Are you all right?” 'he asked, taking her hand in his.
“Mmmm,” she said. “I'm just so very sleepy. What happened -and where are we?”
“We're at Rak Hagga.” He threw a quick glance at Polgara, then turned back to the bed. “You just had a little fainting spell is all,” he said with a slightly exaggerated casualness. “How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine, dear, but I think I'd like to sleep now.” And her eyes went closed. Then she opened them again with a sleepy little frown. “Garion,” she murmured, “why is that candle acting like that?”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don't worry about it, dear,” he told her, but she had already fallen fast asleep.
It was well past midnight when Garion was awakened by a light tapping on the door of the room in which he slept. “Who is it?” he asked, half rising in his bed.
“A messenger from the Emperor, your Majesty,” A voice replied from the other side of the door. “He instructed me to ask if you would be so good as to join him in his private study.”
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
“Such was the Emperor's instruction, your Majesty.”
“All right,” Garion said, throwing off his blankets, and swinging around to put his feet on the cold floor.
“Give me a minute or so to get dressed.”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
Muttering to himself, Garion began to pull on his clothes by the faint light coming from the brazier in the corner. When he was dressed, he splashed cold water on his face and raked his fingers through his sandy hair, trying to push it into some semblance of order. Almost as an afterthought he ducked his head and arm through the strap attached to the sheath of Iron-grip's sword and shrugged it into place across his back. Then he opened the door. “ All right,” he said to the messenger, “let's go.”
Kal Zakath's study was a book-lined room with several leather-upholstered chairs, a large polished table and a crackling fire on the hearth. The Emperor, still clad in plain white linen, sat in a chair at the table, shuffling through a stack of parchment sheets by the light of a single oil lamp.
“You wanted to see me, Zakath?” Garion asked as he entered the room.
“Ah, yes, Belgarion,” Zakath said, pushing aside the parchments. “So good of you to come. I understand that your wife is recovering.”
Garion nodded. “Thank you again fur sending Andel.
Her aid was very helpful.”
“My pleasure, Belgarion.” Zakath reached out and lowered the wick in the lamp until the corners of the room filled with shadows. “I thought we might talk a little,” he said.
“Isn't it sort of late?”
“I don't sleep very much, Belgarion. A man can lose a third of his life in sleep. The day is filled with bright lights and distractions; the night is dim and quiet and allows much greater concentration. Please, sit down.”
Garion unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a bookcase.
“I'm not really all that dangerous, you know,” the Emperor said, looking pointedly at the great weapon.
Garion smiled slightly, settling into a chair by the fire. “I didn't bring it because of you, Zakath. It's just a habit. It's not the kind of sword you want to leave lying around.”
“I don't think anyone would steal it, Belgarion.”
“It can't be stolen. I just don't want anybody getting hurt by accidentally touching it.”
“Do you mean to say that it's that sword?”
Garion nodded. “I'm sort of obliged to take care of it.
It's a nuisance most of the time, but there've been a few occasions when I was glad I had it with me.”
“What really happened at Cthol Mishrak?” Zakath asked suddenly. “I've heard all sorts of stories.”
Garion nodded wryly. “So have I. Most of them get the names right, but not very much else. Neither Torak nor I had very much control over what happened. We fought, and I stuck that sword into his chest.”
“And he died?” Zakath's face was intent.
“Eventually, yes.”
“Eventually?”
“He vomited fire first and wept flames. Then he cried out.”
“What did he say?”
“ 'Mother,' “ Garion replied shortly. He didn't really want to talk about it.
“What an extraordinary thing for him to do. Whatever happened to his body? I had the entire ruin of Cthol Mishrak searched for him.”
“The other Gods came and took it. Do you suppose we could talk about something else? Those particular memories are painful.”
“He was your enemy.”
Garion sighed. “He was also a God, Zakath -and killing a God is a terrible thing to have to do.”
“You're a strangely gentle man, Belgarion. I think I respect you more for that than I do for your invincible courage.”
“I'd hardly say invincible. I was terrified the whole time -and so was Torak, I think. Was there something you really wanted to talk about?”
Zakath leaned back in his chair, tapping thoughtfully at his pursed lips. “You know that eventually you and I will have to confront each other, don't you?”
“No,” Garion disagreed. “That's not absolutely certain.”
“There can only be one King of the World.”
Garion's look grew pained. “I've got enough trouble trying to rule one small island. I've never wanted to be King of the World.”
“But I have -and do.”
Garion sighed. “Then we probably will fight at that sooner or later. I don't think the world was intended to be ruled by one man. If you try to do that, I'll have to stop you.”
“I am unstoppable, Belgarion.”
“So was Torak -or at least he thought so.”
“That's blunt enough.”
“It helps to avoid a lot of misunderstandings later on. I'd say that you've got enough trouble at home without trying to invade my kingdom -or those of my friends. That's not to mention the stalemate here in Cthol Murgos.”
“You're well informed.”
“Queen Porenn is a close personal friend. She keeps information me advised, and Silk picks up a great deal of information during the course of his business dealings.”
“Silk?”
“Excuse me. Prince Kheldar, I mean. Silk's a nickname of sorts.”
Zakath looked at him steadily. “In some ways we're very much alike, Belgarion, and in other ways very different, but we still do what necessity compels us to do. Frequently, we're at the mercy of events over which we have no control.”
“I suppose you're talking about the two Prophecies?”
Zakath laughed shortly. “I don't believe in prophecy. I only believe in power. It's curious, though, that we've both been faced with similar problems of late. You recently had to put down an uprising in Aloria -a group of religious fanatics, I believe. I have something of much the same nature going on in Darshiva. Religion is a constant thorn in the side of any ruler, wouldn't you say?”
“I've been able to work around it-most of the time.”
“You've been very lucky then. Torak was neither a good nor kindly God, and his Grolim priesthood is vile.
If I weren't busy here in Cthol Murgos, I think I might endear myself to the next thousand or so generations by obliterating every Grolim on the face of the earth.”
Garion grinned at him. “What would you say to an alliance with that in mind?” he suggested.
Zakath laughed briefly, and then his face grew somber again. “Does the name Zandramas mean anything to you?” he asked.
Garion edged around that cautiously, not knowing how much information Zakath had about their real reason for being in Cthol Murgos. “I've heard some rumors,” he said.
“How about Cthrag Sardius?”
“I've heard of it.”
“You're being evasive, Belgarion.” Zakath gave him a steady look, then passed his hand wearily across his eyes.
“I think you need some sleep,” Garion told him.
“Time for that soon enough -when my work is done.”
“That's up to you, I guess.”
“How much do you know about Mallorea, Belgarion?”
“I get reports -a little disjointed sometimes, but fairly current.”
“No. I mean our past.”
“Not too much, I'm afraid. Western historians tried very hard to ignore the fact that Mallorea was even there.”
Zakath smiled wryly. “The University of Melcene has the same shortsightedness regarding the West,” he noted. “Anyway, over the past several centuries -since the disaster at Vo Mimbre- Mallorean society has become almost completely secular. Torak was bound in sleep, Ctuchik was practicing his perversions here in Cthol Murgos, and Zedar was wandering around the world like a rootless vagabond -what ever happened to him, by the way? I thought he was at Cthol Mishrak.”
“He was.”
“We didn't find his body.”
“He isn't dead.”
“He's not?” Zakath looked stunned. “Where is he, then?”
“Beneath the city. Belgarath opened the earth and sealed him up in solid rock under the ruin.”
“Alive?” Zakath's exclamation came out in a choked gasp .
“There was a certain amount of justification for it.
Go on with your story.” Zakath shuddered and then recovered. “With the rest of them out of the way, the only religious figure left in Mallorea was Urvon, and he devoted himself almost exclusively to trying to make his palace at Mal Yaska more opulent than the imperial one at Mal Zeth. Every so often he'd preach a sermon filled with mumbo jumbo and nonsense, but most of the time he seemed to have forgotten Torak entirely. With the Dragon God and his disciples no longer around, the real power of the Grolim Church was gone -oh, the priests babbled about the return of Torak and they all paid lip service to the notion that one day the sleeping God would awaken, but the memory of him grew dimmer and dimmer. The power of the Church grew less and less, while that of the army -which is to say the imperial throne- grew more and more.”
“Mallorean politics seem to be very murky,” Garion observed.
Zakath nodded. “It's part of our nature, I suppose. At any rate, our society was functioning and moving out of the dark ages -slowly, perhaps, but moving. Then you appeared out of nowhere and awakened Torak -and just as suddenly put him permanently back to sleep again. That's when all our problems started.”
“Shouldn't it have ended them? That's sort of what I had in mind.”
“I don't think you grasp the nature of the religious mind, Belgarion. So long as Torak was there -even though he slept- the Grolims and the other hysterics in the empire were fairly placid, secure and comfortable in the belief that one day he would awaken, punish all their enemies, and reassert the absolute authority of the unwashed and stinking priesthood. But when you killed Torak, you destroyed their comfortable. sense of security. They were forced to face the fact that without Torak they were nothing. Some of them were so chagrined that they went mad. Others fell into absolute despair. A few, how ever, began to hammer together a new mythology -something to replace what you had destroyed with a single stroke of that sword over there.”
“It wasn't entirely my idea,” Garion told him.
“It's results that matter, Belgarion, not intentions. Anyway, Urvon was forced to tear himself away from his quest for opulence and his wallowing in the adoration of the sycophants who surrounded him and get back to business. For a time he was in an absolute frenzy of activity. He resurrected all the moth-eaten old prophecies and twisted and wrenched at them until they seemed to say what he wanted them to say.”
“And what was that?”
“He's trying to convince people that a new God will come to rule over Angarak -either a resurrection of Torak himself or some new deity infused with Torak's spirit. He's even got a candidate in mind for this new God of Angarak.”
“Oh? Who's that?”
Zakath's expression became amused. “He sees his new God every time he looks in a mirror.”
“You're not serious!”
“Oh, yes. Urvon's been trying to convince himself that he's at least a demigod for several centuries now. He'd probably have himself paraded all over Mallorea in a golden chariot -except that he's afraid to leave Mal Yaska. As I understand it, there's a very nasty hunchback who's been hungering to kill him for eons -one of Aldur's disciples, I believe.”
Garion nodded. “Beldin,” he said. “I've met him.”
“Is he really as bad as the stories make him out to be?”
“Probably even worse. I don't think you'd want to be around to watch what he does, if he ever catches up with Urvon.”
“I wish him good hunting, but Urvon's not my only problem, I'm afraid. Not long after the death of Torak, certain rumors started coming out of Darshiva. A Grolim priestess -Zandramas by name- also began to predict the coming of a new God.”
“I didn't know that she was a Grolim,” Garion said with some surprise.
Zakath nodded gravely. “ She formerly had a very unsavory reputation in Darshiva. Then the so-called ecstasy of prophecy fell on her, and she was suddenly transformed by it. Now when she speaks, no one can resist her words. She preaches to multitudes and fires them with invincible zeal. Her message of the coming of a new God ran through Darshiva like wildfire and spread into Regel, Voresebo, and Zamad as well. Virtually the entire northeast coast of Mallorea is hers.”
“What's the Sardion got to do with all this?” Garion asked.
“I think it's the key to the whole business,” Zakath replied. “Both Zandramas and Urvon seem to believe that whoever finds and possesses it is going to win out.”
“Agachak -the Hierarch of Rak Urga- believes the same thing,” Garion told him.
Zakath nodded moodily. “I suppose I should have realized that. A Grolim is a Grolim -whether he comes from Mallorea or Cthol Murgos.”
“It seems to me that maybe you should go back to Mallorea and put things in order.”
“No, Belgarion, I won't abandon my campaign here in Cthol Murgos.”
“Is personal revenge worth it?”
Zakath looked startled.
“I know why you hated Taur Urgas, but he's dead, and Urgit's not at all like him. I can't really believe that you'd sacrifice your whole empire just for the sake of revenging yourself on a man who can't feel it.”
“You know?” Zakath's face looked stricken. “Who told you?”
“Urgit did. He told me the whole story.”
“With pride, I expect.” Zakath's teeth were clenched, and his face pale.
“No, not really. It was with regret -and with contempt for Taur Urgas. He hated him even more than you do.”
“That's hardly possible, Belgarion. To answer your question, yes, I will sacrifice my empire -the whole world if need be- to spill out the last drop of the blood of Taur Urgas. I will neither sleep nor rest nor be turned aside from my vengeance, and I will crush whomever stands in my path.”
“Tell him, “ the dry voice in Garion's mind said suddenly.
“What?”
“Tell him the truth about Urgit. “
“But- “
“Do it, Garion. He needs to know. There are things he has to do, and he won't do them until he puts this obsession behind him. “
Zakath was looking at him curiously.
“Sorry, just receiving instructions,” Garion explained lamely.
“Instructions? From whom?”
“You wouldn't believe it. I was told to give you some information.” He drew in a deep breath. “Urgit isn't a Murgo,” he said flatly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I said that Urgit isn't a Murgo -at least not entirely.
His mother was, of course, but his father was not Taur Urgas.”
“You're lying!”
“No, I'm not. We found out about it while we were at the Drojim Palace in Rak Urga. Urgit didn't know about it either.”
“I don't believe you, Belgarion!” Zakath's face was livid, and he was nearly shouting.
“Taur Urgas is dead,” Garion said wearily. “Urgit made sure of that by cutting his throat and burying him head down in his grave. He also claims that he had every one of his brothers -the real sons of Taur Urgas- killed to make himself secure on the throne. I don't think there's one drop of Urga blood left in the world.”
Zakath's eyes narrowed. “It's a trick. You've allied yourself with Urgit and brought me this absurd lie to save his life.”
“Use the Orb, Garion,” the voice instructed.
“How?”
“Take it off the pommel of the sword and hold it in your right hand. It'll show Zakath the truths that he needs to know.”
Garion rose to his feet. “If I can show you the truth, will you look?” he asked the agitated Mallorean Emperor.
“Look? Look at what?”
Garion walked over to his sword and peeled off the soft leather sleeve covering the hilt. He put his hand on the Orb, and it came free with an audible click. Then he turned back to the man at the table. “I'm not exactly sure how this works,” he said. “I'm told that Aldur was able to do it, but I've never tried it for myself. I think you're supposed to look into this.” He extended his right arm until the Orb was in front of Zakath's face.
“What is that?”
“You people call it Cthrag Yaska,” Garion replied.
Zakath recoiled, his face blanching.
“It won't hurt you -as long as you don't touch it.”
The Orb, which for the past months had rather sullenly obeyed Garion's continued instruction to restrain itself, slowly began to pulsate and glow in his hand, bathing Zakath's face in its blue radiance. The Emperor half lifted his hand as if to push the glowing stone aside.
“Don't touch it,” Garion warned again. “Just look.”
But 'Zakath's eyes were already locked on the stone as its blue light grew stronger and stronger. His hands gripped the edge of the table in front of him so tightly that his knuckles grew white. For a long moment he stared into that blue incandescence. Then, slowly, his fingers lost their grip on the table edge and fell back onto the arms of his chair. An expression of agony crossed his face. “They have escaped me,” he groaned with tears welling out of his closed eyes, “and I have slaughtered tens of thousands for nothing.” The tears began to stream down his contorted face.
“I'm sorry, Zakath,” Garion said quietly, lowering his hand. “I can't change what's already happened, but you had to know the truth.”
“I cannot thank you for this truth,” Zakath said, his shoulders shaking in the storm of his weeping. “Leave me, Belgarion. Take that accursed stone from my sight.” Garion nodded with a great feeling of compassion and shared sorrow. Then he replaced the Orb on the pommel of his sword, re-covered the hilt, and picked up the great weapon. “I'm very sorry, Zakath,” he said again, and then he quietly went out of the room, leaving the Emperor of boundless Mallorea alone with his grief.